


red flowers

by KingLyonheart



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Hickies, M/M, Male Masturbation, Marking, Masturbation, Mentions of Blood, Morning After, Sort Of, Stream of Consciousness, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingLyonheart/pseuds/KingLyonheart
Summary: this was the closest they ever got to giving each other flowers.





	red flowers

**Author's Note:**

> first fic up on ao3. whoo hoo!
> 
> fic isn't beta'd. boo. please forgive typos.

**M** ary was away. She and the kids were visiting her family in the midwest, or else this would never happen. At least, the pinnacle of holiness told himself that as he gazed into the mirror above his pristine counter top (he and Mary had separate bathrooms; hers scattered with makeup and hairband, dark colors, colors he didn’t remember being like that before the first time) and ran along the angle of his chin the sharpness of a new razor. Pristine. At least his face could look pristine while a garden of carmine flora bloomed across his shoulders, collarbone, his hips, his thighs, petals of bewilted roses dancing along a milky ivory surface, staring at him in the window. The thorn of regret. It was a bitter taste.

 

This was red. It dripped onto the countertop from a hand that had been distracted, pooling on the white marble just inches away from an anchor made of resin and wrapped in resin rope, hand painted, a beach’s name carved into the base. He cared more for the anchor than he did for the beach, but it looked nice there, against the muted blues. And now, reds. But not the antiqued red of the lifesaver decorum here and there, but the bright heart-red of blood. He’d cut himself shaving. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done that.

 

It ran beneath his chin. Down the canal formed by tense muscles of his neck did a red bloodline form, spilling like forgotten wine on the foot of the bed at his wedding night across the cream of his flesh, dancing with the bruises and bites and the marks: he raised a hand to wipe it away, feeling the sting, the memory, the mark.

 

Usually, the rules were no marks. Usually, the rules were no kisses. But red flowers shone on his skin as a blaring defiance to the rule and there were scratches in parallel lines making a roadmap of his spine and shoulder blades, a winding city illuminated in hues of cardinal and gleaming amongst the desert oasis of ivory. And he remembered the taste of whiskey and cigarettes on his lips and the feeling of a tongue prying at his closed mouth and hands gripping tight to shoulder blades so that he feared the fabric would be rent from his very skin.

 

His left hand was splayed on the white surface. The gold band shone in the fluorescent light. The act of wiping away the wayward carmine was forgotten as his fingers examined and remembered every mark. The labored breathing against his ear. The growl of his name.

 

Against marble did he rest his hips, thoroughly distracted. Teeth bit into the flesh of his right hand’s pointer finger as thought to ground him, his thoughts. The blood had probably stopped flowing by now, but he felt it on his skin, the warmth from where it had wound its path across his body like the very spilled blood of warriors in the name of God, allowing him to live this life. To revel in the sin that tasted so bitter on his tongue the next morning. 

 

He could have been rent asunder last night, torn down and reduced to ash and nothing, the heat from the fingertips of the other man like all damnit flame: he forgot breath itself and air, as it was, he forgot all things but the feeling of red flowers blooming across his skin, their petals torn from him by sharp teeth and crescent-moon nails, a garden planted on his body as a reminder and he felt his body grow hot as his fingers explored them. It was the same heat that had permitted the flowers to bloom. His internal sun shone hot and burning, across his skin. His face was flushed, his task was forgotten.

 

His left hand gripped the sink. His right curled around the soft flesh of his throat, the construction familiar, the dizziness more intoxicating than fine wine awash over his senses like a flood, constricting his heart like a serpent in the garden of Eden, driving all holiness and purity from him with viperous fangs that pierced too deep. He would never be able to fully eradicate the venom. The venom was the heat seeping through his veins as his right hand fell next to its partner on the sink and a half-shaven face with unkempt hair gazed back at him with blue eyes, dilated pupils, and labor to his breathing.

 

His right hand disappeared below the marble, and his breath hitched again, not through asphyxiation, but through a poison, his own poison, the one he drank from with every thought of that man across his mind, that hitch in his breath and the growl in his ear and the sting of his teeth on his skin. That way he never said his name so much as he breathed it or hissed it, that way that a canvas stretched clean was littered with splatters of blue and purple, red, the fact he was gone by the time the sun revealed what he had done and the face he tasted whiskey and cigarettes, neither of which he ever partook.

 

It wasn’t his own taste. It was someone else’s taste. And it lingered on his lips and no sweat could exercise it from his pores or his breath as his head was bowed now, stabilized by one hand on the sink and his eyes closed as he remembered it, the feeling, the touch, the burn and the ache he remembered it as though his mind played it on repeat. And it did. Red cloth over his eyes. Hands on his chest. Warmth against his body and the heat of breath and saliva on his neck, and the pressure and sting that brought forth the garden of red flowers.

 

This was the closest they’d ever get to sending each other flowers. These would probably outlast anything cultivated and sent in inexpensive plastic wrapping with a ribbon and a card and these? These were real. He felt them. Their roots were in his very core.

 

He gasped again. His hand gripped to the smooth marble even harder, pushing his own hips forward and into his hand and though there was no one in this house to hear him, he silenced himself. Sharp exhales through his nose. The rhythm, erratic, of his heart, in his ears, pounding and he leaned his weight on the countertop and his left hand was liberated from that duty--it danced over the expanse of his skin, it counted the petals, it drew the memories back. Of fingers laced through golden strands. Of the solid smack of his head ‘accidentally’ striking the headboard. Of the pillow where he and his wife lay clenched between his teeth as he groaned and silenced what would sound as a holy mantra, the name of the man who rent him from within:  _ Robert, Robert-- _

 

And he spoke the name aloud on a heavy exhale as his body quaked as though it would come apart at the very seams:  _ Robert, Robert. _

 

Shaving was forgotten.

 

Joseph needed a shower. 


End file.
